


Little Beasts

by bodysnatch3r



Series: The Heistverse [6]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 15,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1805362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodysnatch3r/pseuds/bodysnatch3r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a collection of drabbles and various prompt fills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Table Of Contents

_I know history. There are many names in history  
_ _but none of them are ours._  
**Richard Siken, "Little Beast"**

**stories listed in chronological order.**

  * **1978: Mistletoe** [Celeborn/Galadriel; Gandalf & Galadriel; G]
  * **1982: Are You Flirting With Me?** [Thorin/Dwalin]
  * **1984: Goldberg Variations** [Thorin/Dwalin]
  * **1992: Value Me** [Dori & Nori; PG-13, mentions of family issues, torture, mental illness]
  * **1998: I'm Not Hungry** [Dwalin/Thorin, PG, mentions of ptsd, violence, depression]
  * **1999:** **Snowfall & Mulled Wine **[Bofur & Dwalin & Nori; PG-13, mentions of violence]
  * **1999: Are you drunk?** [Nori/Dwalin; NC-17, open discussion of murder, sex]
  * **2002: **A Family Friend**** [Dwalin/Thorin, NC-17, mentions of mental illness, violence, torture]
  * **2002:** **Nurse Me** [Thorin/Dwalin; PG-13, mentions of torture and self-harm]
  * **2002: A Paraphrase of Suicide** [Thorin/Dwalin; PG-13, mentions of ptsd, suicidal tendencies]
  * **2002: Wound Shut** [Thorin & Dis; mentions of Thorin/Dwalin; PG, mentions of past torture, mental illness]
  * **2004:** **Traditions** [Dis & Frerin & Thorin Oakenshield; PG, mentions of mental illness & canonical character death]
  * **2010: Gingerbread** [Thranduil & Legolas; Thranduil & Elrond; G]
  * **2010: Pick and Choose** [Bombur/Viktoryia; Bombur  & Bofur; PG-13, mentions of violence]
  * **2012: Value** **Me** [Fili/Rebecca; PG, mentions of past self-harm]
  * **2013:** **Are You Flirting With Me?** [Kili/Alex]
  * **2013: It Begins In A Garden [** Dwalin/Thorin; PG, mentions of violence]
  * **2013: Amuse Me** [Bofur & Nori; NC-17, graphic depictions of torture]
  * **2013: Break Me** [Dwalin & Becca; PG-13, mentions of canonical character death]
  * **2014: Haunt Me** [Thorin/Dwalin; PG-13, mentions of canonical character death, gore, alcohol abuse, post traumatic stress disorder]
  * **2014: Wind Chimes** [Dwalin & Becca; mentions of Thorin/Dwalin; Fili/Becca; PG; mentions of character death, alcohol abuse]
  * **Alternate Universe 2017: The Notion of Falling** [Thorin/Dwalin; Kili/Alex; Fili/Becca]
  * **Alternate Universe 2017: Dwalin: [stares into camera as if he were on the office]** [Thorin/Dwalin; Becca/Fili; Kili/Alex; G]
  * **2023: Cities of Night (Sneak Peek)** [Tauriel & Thranduil & Elrond; G]
  * **2023: Starlight, Starbright** [Tauriel/Thranduil; PG; mentions of child abuse]




	2. 1978: Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Celeborn doesn't really know how to act around Galadriel, Galadriel doesn't really know how to act around Celeborn, and G decides to take matters entirely in his own hands.
    
    
    **DECEMBER 25th, 1978**  
    
    **MI6 HEADQUARTERS**  
    
    **9:30 PM**
    

She stomps out onto the roof wearing nothing but her dress and her shoes and carrying her purse, despite the fact that it's snowing. 

"If I have to hear the Soviet anthem once more, I am going to _scream_."

The Lady (although she is not yet known as The Lady- that will take time and expertise and a great deal of viciousness- for now, she is simply known as Galadriel Alqualondë) pulls a cigarette out of the package G is offering her (although he is not yet known as G- that will take time and expertise and a great deal of treachery- for now, he is simply known as Olórin Mithrandir) and lights it.

"Wait until they start with the carols."

She rolls her eyes at him.

"Well, we've had a good year." she says, eyeing London under them, lights and laughter not visible but being sensed in the air nonetheless, the cheer curling its way through the smoke, meeting snow halfway there. _It's Christmas, spread a little love._

"We most definitely have."

She shivers as she smiles and Olórin slips his jacket onto her shoulders- "I don't-"

"It's cold."

They've had a good bloody year, she thinks. They've had a _great year_. A wondrous, mad, terrifying year. She's had blood up to her elbows, he's taken a bullet for her (she'd do the same in a heartbeat).

And then, of course, there'd been the roses. Every Wednesday morning she's had, without fail, a single red rose delivered to her desk, be it sun, rain, fog or wind. She'd asked Olórin about it, who'd obviously acted as vague as possible. 

"Do you figure it's..." she'd purposefully wondered out loud once over her morning coffee, but her voice had trailed off as her hands had gotten warmer. 

"It's?"

"You know. Doriath."

" _Celeborn Doriath_?"

The awkward, quiet, clumsy diplomat who'd occasionally had something to do with the Secret Service's antics (mainly clean up after their mess). Galadriel had talked to him, a few times, and sat across from him at an official dinner once. He was already greying, she remembers, incredibly intelligent and painfully shy. And she'd found him utterly endearing (much to Olórin's dismay).

Olórin had shrugged, feigning ignorance.

Galadriel smiles to herself and allows her friend to hold the door open for her once they're done with their cigarettes; the difference between outside and inside (freezing, bone-chilling cold and near-tropical temperatures) gives her goosebumps and she scrunches her nose up: it's gone numb and tingly. Olórin gets handed his jacket back, catches a glimpse of someone, and over the music he asks, "Care for a drink, darling?"

Galadriel nods and goes back to feigning being interested in watching the others dance. R zooms by her, wearing a pair of reindeer horns and a garland of streamers. She smiles. In the meantime, Mithrandir makes his way to the refreshments table.

Next to it, looking absolutely lost, is Celeborn Doriath. 

" _You_." Olórin barks out, and the other jumps, startled.

"Me?"

"Yes. _You_."

The agent waves a finger in the diplomat's face, and then turns around for a second towards Galadriel.

"Do you see that woman down there?" he asks. Something in the way Celeborn swallows and shuffles his feet tells him he's been pining from afar for most of the evening. "Perfect. Great. Wonderful. I've been delivering your bloody single rose to her desk every day for the past eight months. Now I want you to go over there and  _talk to her_."

"T-talk to her?"

The absolute horror in Celeborn's voice makes Olórin blink in exasperation. "Yes, darling. It would do a great deal of good for you, her and, most importantly, _me_."

A best friend can handle longing sighs and awkward gazes and badly hidden blushes for so long before snapping. And, right this moment, Olórin is positively snapping. 

"But she's not even inte-"

Mithrandir sighs loudly and glances up at the ceiling, begging the Lord to grant him the patience necessary to deal with the both of them. And, as per usual, it seems as if he's bound to have to take matters into his own hands. 

* * *

"Olórin?" Galadriel asks, turning a corner and frowning when she finds the office floor in front of her empty. She's on the second floor, the party is roaring upstairs, and her partner had asked her to come downstairs for a moment to discuss "important matters", forcing her to leave her second glass of wine behind. 

"Olórin, if this isn't impo-" she barks, before running into someone completely unexpected. She takes a step back, quickly fixes her hair and blinks a few times. She blushes the moment she realises who she's bumped into.

"Oh dear miss I'm so so so sorry, I'm sorry, so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

The other isn't in a better state: he's quickly clenching and unclenching his hands, completely at loss concerning what to do, as she rubs the bridge of her nose "Are you all right?" Celeborn asks. Galadriel quickly nods. 

"Yes. Yes. I'm fine. All fine."

She giggles nervously (Olórin, hidden behind the cubicle he'd ungraciously pushed Celeborn out of, buries his face in his palms in second-hand embarrassment- _never_ , in any of his wildest dreams had he imagined seeing Galadriel, of all people, reduced to a giggly mess) and Celeborn awkwardly smiles back, and then Galadriel glances up.

There's mistletoe hastily sellotaped to a string hanging right above their heads.

Celeborn's noticed it too, " _Mistletoe_ ," Miss Alqualondë says, brushing her palms against her dress and tugging at it a little whilst she embarrassedly smiles. 

"Yeah." Celeborn awkwardly replies, nodding a little.

Olórin drags his hands down his face.

"Well, uh." Doriath mumbles, and Galadriel stares at him, cursing Mithrandir in her head (just a little), "have you been enjoying the party?" he goes on, rubbing his left foot against the back of his right ankle, and then Galadriel suddenly thinks _O_ _h, to Hell with it_! and she grabs him by the shirt, dragging him into a kiss. Celeborn's eyes widen and he blinks- it takes him a few seconds to realise what's going on- and then he smiles to himself, all giddy, and kisses back.

Mithrandir lets out a sigh of relief. He then notices that he has tape still stuck to one of his fingers.


	3. 1982: Are You Flirting With Me?

The library is quiet, as per usual, their hands simply brushing close and their feet occasionally bumping into each other and for most of the time Thorin keeps his head low and his voice even lower, and the glances they share are small and timid (at least on his part) and he never dares his fingers to creep an inch closer to Dwalin's.

"Hold on."

Dwalin eyes his problem from over his shoulder and Thorin wishes he could just turn the fuck around and  _kiss him_ , for Chrissake, like he did the first time, but there's always something weighing him down, there's always something keeping him still, there's always Dwalin's chin slightly too close to his shoulder that drives him insane.

Dwalin smiles at a certain point as he eases himself back in the chair.

"Did I make a mistake?"

(He always manages to talk, eventually, and this always scares him because whenever Dwalin's around he always thinks he's suddenly gone mute).

"No. No. You actually. You know. Got the answers right."

Thorin's heart pounding echoes in his skull and he smiles awkwardly and religiously averts Dwalin's gaze, even though he senses the other's warm smile on his skin, even though he doesn't know how much he makes Dwalin's eyes twinkle with what MacFundin guesses is some sort of infatuation. They are dancing on the edges of intimacy and on the edges of craters full of eternal flame and Thorin concentrates on the numbers on the page.

"Did you change cologne?"

His head shoots up at Dwalin's question, he stares at him for a moment, completely caught off-guard.

"What?"

"Did you change cologne?"

Thorin blinks a few times and curtly nods, brow furrowing. 

"Yeah? Yeah, I used my Dad's, I ran out of mine."

"It smells nice, you should use it more often."

Thorin's shoulders tighten and he scratches what little stubble he has, concentrating on the hands moving to keep his mind at bay and away from thinking too much about the conversation he's having right now, because he's learned that if he thinks, he is lost, and if he thinks in front of Dwalin, all he can think about are his lips and his eyes and his smile and his hands and he becomes so engrossed in the way his eyes change when he smiles that he fears he will dissolve.

"And that's a new shirt, isn't it?"

Thorin pauses and turns to face Dwalin.

"...It is."

MacFundin nods and tuts, "Wanna try doing the next problem?"

"Oh. Oh yeah. Sure."

Thorin sets himself on copying the text down when Dwalin candidly says, "You look good in it."

And his cheeks are promptly set on fire. Oakenshield swallows, tightens his jaw and then turns around to look at Dwalin again.

"I'm sorry, are you  _flirting_ with me?"

Dwalin stares at him for a few seconds. He tries with all his might to not laugh at the stern little boy sitting in front of him, but his eyes look so confused, and he looks like a puppy again, and the laughter is a deep roar that merges with him leaning over, placing his thumb against Thorin's chin.

Dwalin kisses him while he still marvels at the lanky, skinny treasure he has found, he kisses him and smiles while he does so, and then he whispers,

"You are a _wonder_."

And for a second Thorin thinks of shying back, but then again he thinks his heart might shrivel and die if he does.


	4. 1984: Goldberg Variations

Dwalin splays a hand across Thorin's chest and feels it vibrate with his breathing. He leans against it, he falls into it, he dips himself through it and follows the patterns the air traces along Thorin's ribs and lungs. For a moment he is inside Thorin, and he is wrapped around his heart.

Thorin, on the other hand, limits himself to running his fingers through Dwalin's mohawk tangling and untangling it, weaving it through his own fingers, tugging at it slightly. His eyes are shut. The hum hatches beneath his chin, it seeps into his jaw, between his teeth and laces them with silver, and it floats out in a single flat note. Thorin clears his throat, Dwalin makes nothing of it.

Until the flat note bends in the air and becomes something else. The sketch of a melody, pale in the air and nearly drowned out by their cigarette smoke, peeks at Dwalin's ears. He pulls himself up, pulls his head up, and smiles.

“You're singing.”

Thorin's eyes snap open, he sits up brow furrowed at Dwalin and makes sure not to get ash on the sheets.

“No I wasn't.”

“I didn't know you could sing.”

“I _wasn't_.”

Dwalin's smirk widens.

“What were you singing?”

“I _wasn't singing_.”

Dwalin presses his forehead to Thorin's and eyes him past the bridge of his nose and his eyes merging into one. Thorin scowls at him.

“But you _were_.”

Thorin pulls back and rolls his eyes. The blush only laps at the tips of his ears, but Dwalin bites one nonetheless: lightly, playfully, and Thorin's breath hitches. He shoves Dwalin, “You're  _impossible_ .” and Dwalin kisses him, nuzzles his neck.

“I know.”

And Thorin smiles at him when he cups his cheek, as Bach's Aria from the Goldberg Variations finds the strand it had dropped in his brain, and the piano keys ghost against his fingertips, his mother's patient voice behind it, lapping at his tongue with angry memories. He kisses the sounds down. He kisses the notes down, and finds them.

 


	5. 1992: Value Me

Nori feels the weight of the wall as his back is slammed into it by his much bulkier, reasonably stronger brother (he always had agility and stealthiness on his side, never brute force, except when it comes to knives, of course, and there it’s just criss cross and bleed ‘till they’re dry or they’re begging for mercy or both) and he bares his teeth in a bestial, ferocious snarl.

"Careful, sweetheart, you’ll pop my latest stitches."

"Stay. Away. From. Ori."

"The kid’s got a mind of his own, you can’t-"

"You insane…  _thing_ , you stay the fuck away from my little brother.”

“ _Our_ little brother.”

Oh, it stings exactly where he wants it to, and Dori tightens his grip on his shoulder. They both know Nori is just a second away from spilling his stomach on the freshly cleaned rug, but they both know he won’t do such a thing. Not now, at least. 

"You stay away from me, and from mum,  _and you stay away from Ori or God help me I am getting a bloody restraining order_.”

"It’s always a pleasure to see you _too_ , sweetheart.”

They both know Nori doesn’t give half a shit about anything so trivial as restraining orders.


	6. 1998: I'm Not Hungry

"I’m not hungry," the voice under the comforter mumbles, "There’s no need to feed me."

Dwalin rolls his eyes, sets the tray down onto the edge of the bed and frowns at the lump that’s buried under duvets and pillows. Minty decides to join too, and sits herself where Dwalin supposes Thorin’s back is, purring lazily.

"Come on, you jerk, you didn’t even have dinner last night."

(His plane had touched British soil at three A.M., finally home after a gruelling three month deployment in Sierra Leone, by four thirty he’d cleared customs and all paperwork, by quarter to five they’d made it out of the parking lot, by six they’d made it home and he’d dragged himself to bed, kicked his shoes off and crashed).

"And it’s not breakfast, it’s five P.M."

Thorin peeks his head out from under the duvet, peers past Minty’s swishing tail and mumbles, “I slept eleven hours?”

"More or less."

"I don’t remember any nightmares."

Dwalin’s small smile clearly states that there’d been nightmares, and it’s better he doesn’t remember them, but Thorin guesses the pounding in his brain is due to _something_ , it isn’t a tiredness migraine, or better, it isn’t _just_ a tiredness-too-little-sleep migraine, it’s a I-woke-up-screaming-at-ten-AM-because-a mine-took-out-a-twelve-year-old-girl’s-legs-in-front-of-me migraine and there’s heavy ugly flashes behind Thorin’s eyes, and he shuts them and suddenly remembers he is not, in fact, hungry.

"Dwals, I’m fine, there’s no need to feed me."

Dwalin sighs very quiet, Thorin feels Minty’s weight being lifted off his back (she meows in protest) and what he guesses is Dwalin resting his head in her place so he can listen to his heartbeat.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

Thorin shrugs as best as he can and keeps on staring at the wall.

"Not really. Not now, at least."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

Dwalin shifts his position, Thorin tightens his knees up to his chest, Dwalin picks the tray up and starts walking out.

"Dwals?"

The footsteps stop.

"Yeah?"

A tired, bed-headed face emerges from under the covers, “What did you make?”

"It’s just leftovers, really. Why?"

Thorin shrugs. “Seems a pity to just let it all go to waste.”

Thorin smiles, small and scared and tired and still beautiful.

Dwalin smiles back.


	7. 1999: Snowfall & Mulled Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nori screws up, bodies can be an incredibly obnoxious inconvenience and the answer to everything is alcohol.
    
    
    **DECEMBER 11th, 1999**
    **SOMEWHERE**
    **3:12 AM**

If there is one thing Nori Rison has underestimated greatly, it is the difficulty of burying a body in the middle of nowhere with five inches of snow on the ground and no sign of a snowstorm ending. 

Bofur Broadbeam can't help but agree.

Dwalin MacFundin is just happy that the car they're using has a working radiator.

"God. Fucking. Jesus.  _Fuck this_!" Nori yells, shoving the body wrapped in a plastic sheet aside and kicking it. He throws his shovel to the ground and spits at it. He turns around and Bofur is staring at him the same way a mother would stare at a petulant child.

"... _What_?"

"Had your tantrum?" he asks, wielding his own shovel.

"Yeah. Fuck off."

Nori turns back again and grabs his spade once more and rams it into the frozen ground, over and over, trying to get the earth to budge.

It doesn't.

He lets out a strangled growl and Dwalin, cozy and warm inside the car (he's on headlights duty) smirks somewhat triumphantly- he loves seeing Nori in difficulty, whatever the reason may be. Rison turns on himself and points a finger at Bofur- " _Don't you fucking dare laugh at me_." 

"I'm not laughing-" he glances back at Dwalin through the windshield, covering his mouth with a hand- " _he's_ laughing."

Nori scowls at Dwalin for the few seconds that staring directly into the headlights will allow him. The snow keeps on falling, thick, obnoxious, covering the body. A hand- bluish and positively dead (and also positively missing three fingers)- limply lies, uncovered. Rison catches a glimpse of it and starts stomping on it.

Bofur rolls his eyes and leans on the shovel's handle. He's starting to freeze, despite the four layers he's wearing.

"If-"

"Nori."

"You-"

" _Nori_."

"Hadn't-"

"NORI."

"Fucking. Died we wouldn't be in this situation  _if you fucking sodding shitty cock-sucking bastard hadn't fucking died we wouldn't be in this goddamn shit-faced situation you rotten little fag_! Why did you have to fuCKING DIE ON ME WHY THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT TO ME I WAS JUST HAVING MY BLOODY GODDAMN FUN ALL I WANTED TO KNOW, SWEETHEART-" by now he's torn the plastic away, ripped his gloves off, grabbed the body's front shirt and started shaking him, roaring in his face- "WAS WHERE THE FUCKING COKE WAS, AND IF YOU HADN'T FUCKING DIED ON ME _I_ wouldn't be in this situation now, _would I_?"

Dwalin activates the windshield wipers: there is no snowstorm in this world that will keep him from witnessing and basking in the full glory of Nori losing his shit over a dead body. Rison clenches his teeth and shoves the cadaver back into the snow, wipes hair out of his face and stands up.

"This is why I told you we should've just dumped him in the trash and skipped town."

"If you hadn't let him  _bleed out_ , Broadbeam, we wouldn't be here right now _in the first bloody place_. Now. Get to digging."

Rison goes back to furiously slamming the shovel against what is basically ice, whilst snow starts collecting on his shoulders and head. Bofur starts giggling and glances back at Dwalin, who gives him the thumbs-up (given the amount of light there is, he doubts Broadbeam saw him) until Nori, exasperated, screams again and hits the body with the back of the shovel blade, over and over and over. He yells one last time and wedges it into the dead man's chest and then stumbles back, catching his breath. He glances over at the snow-covered body, the handle sticking out of it and then at Bofur, the car and lastly, at Dwalin, who's laughing so hard he's leaning against the steering wheel.

"Okay. Broadbeam. Plan B."

"We have a plan B?"

"No, but I can make one up."

Nori's grabbing the body, hastily wrapping it in plastic again, dislodging the spade and dragging him by his feet up to the car. He opens the trunk and signals over to Bofur to come and help. Broadbeam rolls his eyes and helps him shove all of their shit back into the car. Nori opens the front door and sits next to Dwalin, slamming it shut behind him, Bofur clambers in in the back.

"All right. Alcohol first, then we'll think about what to do. MacFundin, if you even dare do so much as _smile_ , I am tearing your tongue out."

Nori grimaces and bears all the teeth he can bear. Dwalin's moustache trembles as he tries not to snigger right in his face.

"May I suggest mulled wine?" Bofur chimes in from the backseat as he's fiddling with his cigarettes. Rison turns slowly and stares at him, eyes narrowed.

" _Mulled. Fucking. Wine_?"

Bofur shrugs.

"You know, to add some holiday cheer."

Dwalin gigglesnorts, shakes his head and starts the car.


	8. 1999: Are you drunk?

He wakes up to the sound of thumping. Not the muffled, “whoever is sleeping in the motel room next to mine is clearly having early fun” kind of thumping. Loud, like the wall next to his head is shaking, but no one is punching it, or else it would be duller and he'd be able to hear the flesh smacking. What he hears are rhythmic, perfectly placed thumps.

Dwalin opens his eyes. The knife flies over his face and buries itself in the wall behind him.

“Just like the Virgin Mary.”

He fails to notice the comparison, or care to notice it. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Having fun.”

Nori grins and doesn't throw the knife he's holding. Instead he straddles Dwalin, spilling some of the whisky out of the bottle he's holding in his other hand as he does so. Nori grins at the man beneath him, leaning forward, cigarette ash falling onto Dwalin's naked chest. He's wearing a shirt that's unbuttoned and nothing else. 

Dwalin arches an eyebrow and brushes the ash off of himself.

“Are you drunk?”

“If I were drunk, could I do this?”

Nori buries the knife in the pillow, next to Dwalin's right ear, and drags it down so that the feathers spill out and the sound of cloth ripping's a nasty one. He leaves the knife lodged in the mattress.

“We'll have to pay for that.”

Nori shrugs, “ _Pity_ .”

Dwalin sighs when Nori grabs his face and caresses it, a mock tender gesture.

“What do you _want_ , Rison? I don't feel like fucking.”

“I could slit your throat right now and no one would care, or hear, or notice.”

Dwalin doesn't miss a beat, “Without any gloves on? Sloppy sloppy, Nori,  _not like you_ .”

Nori leans down and catches Dwalin's lower lip between his teeth, allows his tongue to run along the inside of it, prod Dwalin's mouth a little. Dwalin pushes Nori back. Rison complies, and bares his teeth in a grin.

“Touché, MacFundin, although the idea of gutting you with your prick out sure gets me _all riled up_.”

Nori's grin widens, and he doesn't move his face from nearly touching Dwalin's, lips brushing against his when he's talking. Dwalin can taste and smell the scotch. Nori presents him the bottle,

“Want some, MacFundin?”

Nori's voice lowers all of a sudden, the grin becomes a smirk.

“I think I'll pass.”

And it's a reference to both the alcohol and, subtle like a scratch, their naked chests brushing together, the cigarette between Nori's teeth.

 


	9. 2002: A Family Friend

He sits perched on the edge of his seat, the room empty, his throat empty. Dwalin tries to think but realizes he can’t- he has a letter clutched in his hands that says he has the permission to do this (bureaucracy is strange, in that sense, it needs names and relationships and “Who are you, exactly, in relation to Thorin Oakenshield?” and he’d wanted to answer “His _lover_.” but Thorin would’ve never forgiven him, and so he said what he’d trained himself to say, “A family friend. Here’s a letter that proves it.”, the entirety of twenty years spent together reduced to something as hollow and rattling as the words _a family friend_ ).

A female soldier stands next to the door across from him, and she must’ve noticed how lost he looks, because she’s just whispered something to her partner and left her post for a few moments to come back with a plastic cup of lukewarm tea and a packet of biscuits.

"On the house," she says with a smile, but Dwalin doesn’t have it in him to smile back, so he just croaks "Thank you.", takes the food, puts it aside, no longer thinks about it.

He realizes, staring at the tip of his boots, that he has no idea what to say.

What do you tell a man who’s come back from the dead? What do you tell a man who left six months earlier for a routine mission in Afghanistan and walked straight into the mouth of Hell, who spent four months bleeding inside out, who they found desperate and weighing sixty-five kilos and so, deadly, quiet, coughing blood and spitting it and shaking so hard he couldn’t sleep? Who spent the first week after his rescue unable or unwilling to eat, vomiting anything that wasn’t water or saline solution pumped directly through his bloodstream?

What do you tell a man who left as someone and comes back as an entirely different person?

What do you tell the man you love?

Dwalin doesn’t know. Dis treats him like he does, like he has all the answers to save this sinking ship they’re all trapped on, Dis thinks him and Balin still have the key to their sanity, like when they were children.

But war does things to you, any war, wars fought with guns and with words and bombs and hearts, and it _takes_ from you, an eye, your brothers, your lover your husband your sons, your mother your father, your sanity. Your life, in the end.

Life always takes itself away.

An intercom next to the door buzzes, and the girl answers.

(Dwalin’s heart forgets any and all lessons it ever received about beating).

She nods, he can’t hear what they’re telling her, but when she glances towards him he knows, and he is _terrified_. He thought their first kiss was the most scared he’d ever be, and then he thought the idea of him being dead God knows where in Afghanistan was terrifying, but now Dwalin understands it’s having to look Thorin in the eye knowing what’s been done to him.

The door opens with a buzz and all Dwalin can do with his last ounce of energy is beg himself not to cry.

There will be time for tears. But not right now. Right now Thorin’s staring at him, face sunken, ribs showing through the sweater he’s wearing- and he is empty and shaking and thin enough for Dwalin to realize that it’s no use.

Because no matter the prayers, his eyes are welling up anyway.


	10. 2002: Nurse Me

He doesn’t realise how difficult it’s going to be until he finds himself face to face with Thorin giving him his back, covered in bandages that are a cacophony of germ-less white and varying shades of red, from the brightness of where the wounds are still bleeding to the deep maroon of old wounds now healing.

His throat is dry, empty, and his heart is very quiet in his chest- barely a thump, barely there.

He delicately unravels the binding and reveals the hell underneath- Thorin’s shoulders are bony and his skin is paper thin and it’s been four months of hardly eating at all that have torn out chunks and chunks of flesh and made scars into mountain ranges burrowing into starved land. 

"Jesus."

Dwalin rests a hand on Thorin’s shoulder but Thorin violently pulls away from it, his chest tightens, his muscles grow tense, and he swallows, uneasy, and Dwalin’s hands curl into fists and he wishes he could drag Thorin into a hug but all of a sudden he’s scared doing so will make Oakenshield scream and scream and scream until his throat is dry.

“ _Don’t_.” Thorin snarls. “Don’t touch me.”


	11. 2002: A Paraphrase of Suicide

It's raining. Dwalin feels like the rain is filling his lungs and not only the empty flower pots outside in the garden.

Drowning in someone else's sorrow teaches many lessons, and not only in the art of drowning per se. It teaches how to walk and talk and breathe again, and differently, in ways you may have not imagined nor thought of beforehand.

There is a lot of emptiness, he realises. Much more than he thought he could handle without feeling the world break away and vomit onto its feet before sinking to the floor.

There is a lot of grey, too. It seeps into the little things. A corner of a newspaper, a wound, a sad smile, a distant gaze, eyes never truly focused, so much slipping in and out of view the way things that are slowly fading do.

He rubs his face with both hands, and Minty meows and rubs against his ankles. He's slouched in a chair and he stares at her and then he whispers, “Hey there, baby girl.” When he rubs her behind the ears she starts purring, and Dwalin feels a bit of humanity seep back into his fingertips. Minty hops onto his knees and he finds himself clinging to her presence more than he feels comfortable, more than he should. He thinks about drinking, he thinks about punching something, he thinks about getting up and walking and walking and walking. He already did it once.

Why not a second time?

The front door opens. Minty hops off of Dwalin's knees, startled by the sound.

Neck thin, scars angry that peek along the back of his neck through the hem of his shirt. Hollow eyes. Empty wide _glassy_.

Thorin is soaking wet.

“I'm sorry. I needed to clear my head.”

The shame grips his face and makes him lower his gaze.

“You came back.”

Dwalin feels like a fool the moment he says it. Of course he came back. Where else would he have gone?

_Stepped off a bridge, maybe. Walked into traffic. Simply vanished._

Thorin shrugs, rearranges his features into a small smile. Bitter and lost, and desolate, and a spark that cannot be defined.

“Where should I have gone?”

Like a blow to the head, and the madness always knows where to strike and hurt him. For a moment he thinks he tastes blood in the back of his throat but he knows it's nothing, a phantom pain, a limb cut too soon, a heart bleeding too much.


	12. 2002: Wound Shut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [anotheralexandros](http://tmblr.co/mDVSdkwR_y0s4I1wI2Oga-A) prompted:  **ooh ooh, one of the boys/Dis going up to Thorin and trying to figure out ~the whole Dwalin thing~**

Dis has known ever since she was seventeen.

p>It is in the small things- in the way he says the name, in the way it drips from his mouth scented in goldberry and rosemary's leaves, despite the fact that his teeth are coated in black, black, rotting soul seeping through seared lips- he is thinner he is sadder his eyes are not blue anymore they've washed out, they washed out in the four months his soul was torn from him, and it will be hard to have it scar over painlessly. Thorin is huddled against a window and is wrapped in a blanket and war screams in his ears because it has nowhere else to go. He is not loud he is not a storm he is a bag of bones, and he's been staring out at pouring rain for five minutes now, hands both wrapped around a mug as if it were his only anchor ( _it is it is it is_ ) and Dis is sitting on the couch across from him, and she cocks her head to the side and smiles as she hears the sound of her children stomp somewhere upstairs, laughing and it reminds her of Frerin so bad it makes her want to vomit.

It's only been three months.

(It's only been a lifetime).

The rain thunders outside and Thorin pulls the blanket tighter over his thin shoulders, a symphony of scars and bones, and the conversation Dis just killed is wheezing on the floor, still twitching, still oozing blood.

She mentioned him, and it was a mistake.

Dis sighs. 

"Thorin, I didn't mean-"

"It's okay."

She shuts her eyes: his voice's just cracked around the ends, debris coating his tongue and dust filling his teeth, and she swallows, and she flexes her wrists and they crack. She hates when people lie to her.

"I just want you to know that it's okay. It's  _okay_. Whoever you are, you're still my brother. You always are. You always will be."

Why why  _why_ is she saying this? Why is she making him flinch despite the roar in her mind despite the warning signs despite knowing this will make more harm than anything else- it's because she needs it. She needs to hear it, needs to know he trusts her enough, needs to know she is _worth_ his trust because she does not care who he dates who he loves. He saved her life. 

He's her brother.

His eyes snap away from the drops on the glass and meet hers, so similar. 

"What are you talking about?"

She sighs and stands up and shakes her head.

"You owe it to him."

"Owe him _what_?"

"An admittance."

Admittance of guilt admittance of lust admittance of sin.

(Admittance of love admittance of hope admittance of joy).


	13. 2004: Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin visits old graves, Dis joins him and Frerin lingers.
    
    
    **DECEMBER 12th, 2004**  
    
    HIGHGATE CEMETERY, LONDON  
    
    6:07 PM  
    
    

He thinks that it's funny that Frerin was born twelve days before Christmas. He doesn't know why, but so many things have happened during winter months throughout his life- he allowed himself to fall in love, one december a lifetime before. Not that he wasn't already- but he'd just given himself permission to do so.

As it is, twenty-two years later, Thorin's mind is full of bees and his chest is a rattling knot whenever he thinks about it. His hands are still too thin, some scars are still too fresh.

This is the third year he comes here: he still doesn't know where he found the courage to begin with. The first time was a casualty, the second coincidence. The third time is conscious decision. And this fact alone terrifies him.

"Hey, Frer." Oakenshield mumbles. His voice is ragged in the pauses between words, he vomits smoke (both from his cigarette and from his breath) into the air around him, air that's brisk and cool and tastes of winter. The cemetery is empty, and he likes it that way.

And then his mind hits a wall of blank bricks and he stares at the tombstone in front of him:  _Frerin Oakenshield, born 12/12/1969, died 16/2/2002. Brother, son, friend._  stares back and clenches its teeth around his neck. Thorin tries to swallow and finds out he can't, and maybe it's because swallowing still reminds him too much of breathing, which is something he is still learning to grow accustomed to again. 

Thorin doesn't know what to say. He never knows what to say. He comes here every twelfth of december and never knows what to say.

Footsteps an inch too close to the back of his neck make him turn. 

His little sister is standing behind him, hair tied in a braid, coat wrapped around bony shoulders that never quite gained back the weight they'd lost, _did they now_? and she stares at Thorin with her usual, sad little smile.

"I knew you'd come." is all she whispers, as Thorin lowers his eyes and his teeth bite a bit deeper into the cigarette they're holding. She takes a few steps forward and the first snowflake kisses her right eyelash and she tilts her head as she stares at the slab of black marble. 

Her sigh is small and very very lonely. Her smile is bitter and as sharp as glass. Thorin feels the familiar tug and pull somewhere close to his heart- his first instinct is to find a way to fix it. Make it less aching, less pained.

But all he can bring himself to do is hunch his shoulders even more. It's Dis that creeps her hand into his and rests her head on his shoulder- and it takes him by surprise. 

She'd brought a small paper crane the year before. This time, she's empty handed, but the red of her coat is a welcome out of tune note against the greys and whites Thorin's been wading through.

"Do you think he knows?" Dis asks.

Thorin stares at the snow that's growing thicker and shrugs. 

"I don't know, Dee."

He stopped believing in God when God was torn from him as they tore his fingernails off, so no, he really doesn't know. She burrows close and clings to his arm, presses her cheek to his shoulder. Her breath paints clouds and he lights himself another cigarette. Their mother's tombstone stands right next to her son's, Thorin allows his gaze to linger on her name (Valerie, it rolls off his tongue and into his brain like the breeze)- snow's starting to collect on the top of both graves.

"I miss him," Dis whispers, like every year.

_I miss you too_ , Thorin thinks. _Merry Christmas, Frer._

_If you can hear me._


	14. 2010: Gingerbread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thranduil attempts to be a dad and, much to everyone's surprise (but mainly his), it actually works.
    
    
    **DECEMBER 20th, 2010**  
    
    GREENWOOD ROAD, NUMBER SEVEN  
    
    4:30 PM

"Can you just. Just hold on for a sec."

Thranduil stuffs the phone between his shoulder and ear and delicately steps over a snoring Elk- the dog is currently lying, belly up, in the middle of the hallway (he'd nearly tripped over him when running, pursued by ringing in the other room) and although stuffing the phone in such an uncomfortable position might seem utterly impractical, he needs his hands free to obtain all of the balance he can. He couldn't bear waking Elk up, not when he's sleeping so peacefully. The dog snuffs, snores a little louder and Greenleaf safely manages to reach the kitchen.

On the other side, Elrond rolls his eyes and sets his treadmill speed a notch higher. He's speaking through an earpiece.

"You do realise we'll  _eventually_ have to talk about the case, right?"

"Oh yeah _absolutely_ I'm just. Somewhat busy right now."

Greenleaf glances over at five year old Legolas, who's currently using cookie cutters to shape dough into adorable, albeit lopsided, little men. He accidentally knocks over the carton of milk, and Thranduil lets out a strangled gasp as he hops over to at least try and stop its inexorable fall.

It crashes to the ground in an explosion of white.

"I'm sorry." Legolas blurts out, and Thranduil smiles at his kid and waves his hand, signalling that no harm has been done. 

"Just hand me the kitchen roll, Legs."

The kid hops off his stool and hands his father some of the thick paper.

"...am I interrupting something?"

"Well, we  _are_ making cookies."

Elrond stops in his tracks and nearly falls off the treadmill. He grabs onto the handles just in time and starts walking again, huffing and puffing. 

"You're  _what_?"

"Baking. It's a thing human beings do, Elrond, although I'm sure you're not-"

" _You're_ baking?"

Thranduil stands up and throws away the soaked paper, "As a matter of fact, yes."

" _What exactly are you baking_?"

" _That_ , is a secret. You'll see tomorrow at the Yard."

"Wait,  _what_? You're baking for  _us_?"

Thranduil sticks his tongue out and using his free hand imitates a yapping mouth, rolling his eyes and looking _positively_ bored out of his mind: Legolas giggles, stifling the sound with his hands. 

"Oh, you'll love 'em, Peredhel."

Peredhel sighs, "God save us all."

"Trust me. And the kid. Since he made most of them."

Thranduil steals a gingerbread man's leg and stuffs it into his mouth. Legolas clenches his little fists and narrows his eyes "It's still raw!" but his father smacks his lips, throws up a thumb and mouths _This is great_. Legolas positively beams, his annoyed face blossoming into a shining, proud smile.

"All right then then.  _Amaze us_." Elrond chuckles, somewhat bracing himself, and puts down the call.


	15. 2010: Pick and Choose

“Let me in, Bombs.”

His brother’s jaw clenches beneath his beard and Bofur’s smirk widens, one foot rammed into the door, body twisting into the backroom of Bombur’s restaurant.

“Let me  _in_.”

“No.”

“Spider’s looking for me, I need to get in here.”

Bombur sighs. 

You don’t pick and choose your family. You find yourself caught in the middle: funny fucked up excellent or just as it is, you don’t get to choose. Some things work, some others don’t. Sometimes you’re a little joyfully tipsy and your brother’s making you laugh much too loud and other times he’s rammed half his torso and an arm and a leg between the door and its jamb, and his hair’s disheveled and he can’t stop grinning.

This is one of those days, where he’s teetering on the verge of laughter and his smile’s much too saccharine to be genuine. Bofur puts his weight against the door: it doesn’t budge in Bombur’s hand.

“Bombur, c’mon.”

Sometimes he’s sitting in your living room with your children and your wife is staring at the back of your head like you’re poison, like he’s poison, like he isn’t constantly on the run and his fingers aren’t ever stained with blood. He’s an enigma a splinter a thorn in your side, a bullet ricocheting against the wall till your skull rattles, hair falling in front of his eyes, disheveled by sweat.

“ _Bombur_.”

A voice that’s a fraction too urgent, teeth a fraction too snarling. Bofur scrambles for the doorknob and Bombur pushes the door. Bofur hisses, "You'll fucking snap me in  _half_. Let me in."

"I don't want any trouble."

"For  _fuck's sake_ , Bombur. Let me the  _fuck_ in."

This is where the fur starts bristling, this is where the voice gets cracked. Bombur frowns at his brother.

" _Please_."

"Oh for fuck's--" Bombur looks away, looks back to Bofur. Bofur's neck is a single trembling string of tension, his chest heaving against the door, fingers like talons against the metal.

"Bombur? Is everything all right?"

Viktoriya comes in and Bofur's face shatters in a sick sad grin, derisive joy brimming at the edge of his eyes, bloodshot and flooded with anger. He waves with the hand that isn't being crushed between his hip and the jamb, and tips his head.

"Evening, Vik."

"What is he doing here?"

"He's leaving."

"No I'm not, unless y'want me _dead_." 

Bombur stares at his brother. His knuckles whiten, tight around the doorknob, and then he sighs. "Fuck you, Bof." he mutters, and steps away from the door. Bofur pushes himself through and slams the door shut behind him, back against it as he laughs, a single victorious bark. Twisted fucked up tug-o-war, snarling little match of arm wrestling. But his brother's his brother, after all, and blood's so much thicker than water. 

"Wise choice, Bombs."

"Fuck off."

"Soon as they're out of my hair, Bombs."

"And mine, now, too. Thanks a bunch."

Viktoriya crosses her arms and narrows her eyes, "Can we talk?"

" _Without me_?"

"Yes." both Bombur and his wife snaps. The meat fridge is freezing, but it's locked from the inside and the door's heavy. Unless Bofur's pressing up against it, he won't be able to hear a thing. 

"What is he doing here? I thought we'd  _agreed_ \--"

"Viki, listen, I--"

"You don't get to  _Viki me_ , I  _told you_ \--"

"Viki, he's my  _brother_."

Viki pulls her lips tight over her teeth. "He's a murderer."

Bombur sighs, "Still my brother."

"Это пиздец" she mutters under her breath and runs a hand through her hair. Bofur knocks on the door, and she looks like she's about to scream, or kill him, or both.

"Don't wanna interrupt, doves, but the problem's been sorted."

His voice is muffled and coated with amusement.

"Been-- been sort- what do you mean it's been--" Bombur opens the door suddenly and nearly hits Bofur in the face with it, "what d'you mean it's been. Oh.  _Shit_."

He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. The man's lying on the floor, head twisted to the side. The neck's broken. Clearly. It's broken, and his eyes are wide open and he isn't moving. The door Bofur came in through is open wide.

"There's no one else, don't worry." Bofur says, as he wipes his hands off with a paper towel.

Viktoriya grits her teeth. Bofur flashes a smile at Bombur, "I'm gonna need the trunk of your car. Now, don't look at me like that, I'll wash it, I'll wash it. Use Vanish on th'floor, it'll remove any trace. Or any oxygen based bleach, really. No, no, I know, but-- It was either me or him, Vik, you  _know that_."

Viktoriya turns towards Bombur. Bombur stares at her, then at the man on the floor, and closes his eyes.

"You fucking-- oh,  _Jesus_. Car keys are in my jacket, on the hanger near the kitchen. Jesus."

Bofur curtsies. 

"And Bof? Just so you know? I hate you. I fucking hate your guts."

Only that Bofur grins, and laughs, and winks. "Nah, Bombur. Y'really don't."


	16. 2012: Value Me

Rebecca buries her face in her hands and groans, very slightly.

"You see,  _that’s not the point_.”

She pulls up and stares at Fili and then she continues to wipe down the counter. He’s perched on a stool and is the only one left inside the cafe, because it’s closed right now but he refused to leave, because he wanted to talk, and here they are, and this is stupid stupid  _stupid_.

"Then what’s the point?"

"The point-" she stops and stares at her nails and then at his hands and for a second violently wishes she could hold them. Her eyes involuntarily trail up to his arm and the thick white scars that crisscross them, and he notices, and he quickly pulls his sleeves down and she pulls her hand back and then he’s resting his hand exactly where hers was, and Rebecca bites her lower lip.

"The point is that we went to bed together. We were drunk, and we made a mistake, and that’s it."

"I don’t think it was a mistake."

She stares at him and forgets to hide her bafflement, and smirks, “Shut up. I’m not in the mood for your dicking around.”

"Becky, I’m serious."

"Only my mother calls me Becky."

“ _Rebecca-_  I don’t— _It wasn’t a mistake_. Not for me.”

She scoffs and hastily unties her apron and sets it down next to him, maybe on purpose she lets her hands linger a second too long or maybe it just happens in the moment between when her brain sends her the impulse to set down the apron and sigh and frown at him, but there he is holding her hand, there he is holding it loosely so she can pull back if she wants to, but it turns out she doesn’t want to pull back, and butterflies are something he thought belonged in YA movies and stupid books and teenage magazines, but here they are filling his stomach up to the brim, and she swallows, her hand covered by his and suddenly she doesn’t know what to do.

"I have to. I have to go," she mumbles, quickly pulling her hand away, and hanging the apron up, and then turning around again, and quickly, maybe even stupidly, pressing her lips to Fili’s.


	17. 2013: Are You Flirting With Me?

The problem with vending machines is that they exist, and people use them.

Kili has just come to this life-changing, mind-altering realization standing a few feet away from the coffee and snack machines that're near the study hall in the Fine Arts Department. He is currently staring at them and wondering if it is physically possible to die of a fatal combination of the combined consequences on the human psyche and body of both embarrassment and anxiety, because he's never been  _good_ with his emotions, and emotions concerning a dark-haired dark-eyed French boy have been, as of recent, particularly _difficult_ to digest, or even begin processing at all.

This is the first time in  _weeks_  he's shown up for classes, and since it is universally acknowledged that at any given moment a member of the Oakenshield family will run into exceedingly bad luck (this, at least, according to Ori) Kili is currently also staring at said dark-eyed dark-haired French boy, who is squinting at the coffee machine.

Kili is also running on no sleep, no breakfast, bracing himself for a full morning of classes and in _desperate_ need of a double espresso.

If only Monsieur Baguette-Jacques Cousteau-Hon Hon Hon weren't standing in front of the goddamn machine and currently rendering Kili both speechless and motionless (without counting of course the healthy dose of self-loathing and guilt that are stemming from his chest and taking root a bit too quickly for his tastes, nurtured by the infallible compost that is  _you're not supposed to be gay you're not supposed to be gay or even bisexual god, what if mum finds out what if fee finds out what if thrain or thorin or anyone, for that matter_ ) he'd be able to actually get his goddamn coffee. 

On the other hand, he can't stand in the middle of the busy hallway looking like a complete idiot staring at some French kid. So he braces himself, ignores his rapidly increasing heartbeat (he is so similar to Thorin when he was in a nearly identical situation he cannot even begin to imagine it) and stomps over to the snack machine next to the coffee one.

He very intently stares at a packet of Cheetos.

And then he starts talking.

(He doesn't do it on  _purpose_ , really- he just follows his impulses like he always does, and, as history teaches the Oakenshield children, impulse is sometimes the best course of action).

"Can't decide, huh?"

The French boy looks up from the machine and stares at Kili, furrows his brow for a second and then smiles.

"No. There's a lot of choices."

"I'd go for the latte. You're a dancer, right?"

( _SHUT UP_ )

The other narrows his eyes at Kili and Kili bites his tongue and runs a hand through his hair, "Dammit I'm sorry I just. I heard you talk about it once with, uh, one of the Peredhel twins-"

"Really?"

"Yeah, I, uh-

( _i should probably shut up_ )

I'm Kili. Pleased to meet you."

The boy brushes a strand of hair that's escaped his bun behind an ear and awkwardly smiles, outstretches a hand,

"Alexandre."

He has an accent and his  _r_ 's roll off of his tongue and into Kili's brain so smoothly he wants to repeatedly slam his forehead against the glass until he blacks out or dies or both, but instead of doing that he takes Alex's hand and shakes it. Girls. He's good at talking with girls, not boys, not pretty boys, not boys that make his Goddamn chest flutter.

"Yeah. Cool. That's. That's a nice name."

"You're one of the Oakenshields, aren't you?"

"Me? Yeah. That recognisable?"

The duo giggle and Kili is quick to fill the awkward silence that's about to divide the phrase he's just said and whatever will come next,  "Yeah. I'm, I'm one of 'em."

There is a slight twinge of bitterness in his tongue he regrets immediately and he tugs at his own hair, still knotted with his fingers.

In the meantime, the coffee machine's finished Alex's latte, and he gingerly takes it to avoid scalding his fingers. He smiles at Kili an awkward little smile.

"Well, I'll see you in class, Kili."

" _Please_ , call me Kee."

"...Kee."

The last word is punctuated by Alex with a courteous little nod, and he starts walking away from Kili, when Kili suddenly calls him.

"Alex?"

He barely doesn't hear it over the hustle and bustle of fellow students coming and going and laughing and talking and simply existing.

" _Oui_?"

"I was uh. Wondering-

( _wondering what? oh. fuck it_ ).

-wondering if. You. Felt like grabbing lunch, after class?"

Alex licks his lips and purses them, thinking, and blinks a few times, and Kili thinks he's just damned himself to Hell.

"Are you...  _flirting with me_?"

Kili nearly strangles himself then and there, "Yes? No? Maybe? I don't... shit. Sorry. I don't. I don't know, honestly," he shrugs, wishes he were drinking, "I don't know. I guess," he gives Alex the most desolate, defeated smile the French boy's ever seen, "I'm not very good at doing this with uh. With boys."

Alex tilts his head to the side, thoughtful for a moment. Kili's shoulders tighten.

"It's fine, it's fine, I understand. I screwed up."

"No, _non non_ , _attend_. I'd like to have lunch with you, Kili."

He's just gotten here, he hardly knows anyone. He might as well give it a try. The embarrassed British boy's face suddenly lights up and Alex does recognize, in fact, how pretty that smile looks.

"Really? Cool. Great."


	18. 2013: It Begins In A Garden

It begins in a garden, like all things sacred, but this time Adam tastes his sin and it is a Scottish boy’s grey eyes.

It begins in a garden that is awash in summer rain, the serpent is non-existant, Eve’s shoulders are large and she is a he and his hands are calloused and scarred and tattooed and Adam is trembling every time he smiles.

It begins in a garden.

It ends with a martyr or two, one golden-haired and golden-hearted, the other dark-eyed, sick-skinned, soul-empty, it ends with Adam’s hands dirty with the blood that is also drowning him, it ends with Dwalin curled up hiding away in the sound that the medical equipment makes as it makes Thorin live, whatever is left of Thorin, his throat torn, his mouth open to let the tube through to make him breathe, his hands limp his eyes shut his pulse maddeningly regular and slow.

They are alone, which means Dwalin’s madness has enough room to thrive and grow, which means he cannot stop himself from thinking, and the empty in his chest slowly builds, slowly gives itself a name, leaking from his heart and his mouth and his eyes, black fog shapeless and poisonous and cruel - Thorin’s voice (any word, _any word_ even a survivor’s rage and scorn and terror) isn’t there to keep it at bay, never will be again - and it extends a finger that brushes against Dwalin’s cheek, takes his hand, they’re in a garden, they’re in a garden he knows well, and it’s dark and it’s just stopping to rain. Dwalin doesn’t fight the memory, he is sickly and tired and weak, unable unwilling to fight back, he lets the bleeping of the heart monitor become the dripping of rain against windows.

He lets the memory become a laugh that shines in his brain, he lets the hospital room become the Oakenshield manor (burned to ash, a list of the things they all lost to the flames)’s garden, lets it take him because fighting back was never an option, not now, not when Fili and Kili are dead, not when Thorin is dying, not when he shuts his eyes and Thorin is suddenly eighteen and not an already rotting corpse. Dwalin can hold his hands in the quietness, he smiles when their foreheads press together (hidden behind trees and bush), when Thorin runs a thumb against his lower lip and Dwalin, twenty-year-old Dwalin, is sure he is going to die, he cannot survive a smile like this, eyes as blue as this, fifty-year-old Dwalin is sure he is going to die because all of this is _gone_ , all of this is dying, all of this tore itself from him.

Thorin kisses Dwalin, and Dwalin knows he is going to die the moment Thorin’s heart stops - “I love you,” one of them whispers, maybe both of them, one of them says it for real, out loud, to a quiet, quiet hospital room.

It begins in a garden.

Like all things sacred.


	19. 2013: Amuse Me

"Ah, Rison, _c’mon_.”

Bofur whirls around and smirks at a scowling Nori. His smile is, as always, as rare as it is terrifying.

"We didn’t get A.R.K.E.N.S.T.O.N.E."

Bofur rolls his eyes at this remark and turns his attention back to their guest, who is currently hanging from a meet hook upside down, shirtless and coated in his own blood. Bofur squeezes the man’s cheeks, who stares at him with wide, wide eyes, and clicks his tongue.

"All in good time, my friend."

"And that whore broke my nose.  _And_ MacFundin’s still alive.”

"We know that, Rison. You’ve said it a couple dozen times, _minimum_.”

Bofur twirls the knife between his fingers and then turns around towards Nori and hands it to him, hilt first,

"Wanna give this baby a spin?"

Nori, arms still crossed, shrugs at Bofur and then peers behind him at the man whose mouth is, for now, taped shut with grey duct tape. He stares at Rison with pleading eyes. Bofur wriggles the knife in front of Nori’s nose, who looks away, furrows his brow harder, hunches his shoulders, glances at the knife, then at Bofur, then at the man again and then shrugs,

"Sure.  _Sure_. Fine. Give me the knife.” _  
_


	20. 2013: Break Me

He doesn’t expect anyone to be there- but when he drives up the gravel driveway, and sees a figure standing in front of their graves, Dwalin’s stomach backs up against his spine like an animal searching for a safe corner to tremble in.

He steps out cautiously, and then recognises the turquoise hair and his stomach disintegrates in a painful bloody hiccup that never reaches his mouth and he never tastes-

but he feels it. God, he feels it.

She sees the car pull up out of the corner of her eye and hears the footsteps behind her, heavy with grief, and she smirks to herself.

"I didn’t think I’d see you here."

She looks at him and Dwalin realises there’s paper-thin creases around her eyes and she looks a little more tired, a little more worn down than the last time they met. She smiles at him and it feels misplaced on her own face.

Smiles have no place in a graveyard.

"I need to mourn." she whispers quietly.

Dwalin stops behind Rebecca and stares at the flowers resting on all three graves, and they’re fresh, just placed.

All three graves. Including Thorin’s.

"You—"

"Yeah."

"Thank you."

She sighs as a reply. 

"How’s Kiara?"

"She’s fine. With Dis."

It’s so  _cold_  (not outside, no, outside the sun shines and everything is quiet and calm and birds are chirping and the grass is green), Rebecca sometimes has to remind herself that for a blink in her life she considered this man her best friend.

"I just want you to know-" and then she turns around so they’re facing each other, "I just want you to know I am trying very, very hard to forgive Thorin. I’ve been telling myself that he did what he did because he was sick, and Fili did what he did because he’s—  _Was_. Fili. And Fili always put others first.”

She rests a hand on his shoulder, after a moment’s hesitation.

"Thank you."

"Take care, Dwalin."

As she walks away, her footsteps behind him are heavy with mourning.


	21. 2014: Haunt Me

"You should be dead."

He says that quietly, staring at the wall and not turning around.

"I know."

"You should _stay dead_.”

"It’s all in your head either way," and he can’t help but stare at the near-empty bottle in front of him and the glass and the way his vision can’t focus  _quite right_ when the other speaks those words, so softly, quiet deep voice rasping against his vocal chords, pricking small droplets of blood along the back of his neck.

Dwalin doesn’t want to turn around because he doesn’t want to see, but then there’s a hand placed over his (no touch, no nothing, just image), with the nails and the blood under them and the skin and the scars and he trails his vision up his arm to the shirt also covered in blood to the disheveled hair to the neck that always bleeds and gushes and will never ever stop, even though the doctors sewed it shut and bandaged it perfectly white and then waited for him to die.

Dwalin often dreams he is lying close to Thorin only to realise Thorin is bleeding, and he’s not breathing air in anymore he’s breathing his lover’s blood, and then the blood fills his lungs, and it drowns him, and in the last moments before death takes him he tries to scream, but the blood pools in his mouth, and then he wakes up.

He cries.

He gets drunk.

The moon plays with the clouds and the stars chirp along. Dwalin stares at them, to distract himself from the empty ghost that is sitting next to him on the floor.

"I thought I’d get used to it, after a while."

"Used to what?"

"To you being dead."

"It’s been a year and a half."

Dwalin stares at Thorin and finds it impossible to sustain the other’s apathetic gaze for longer than a moment and he distracts himself with a small rattling chuckle.

"It doesn’t help, you know, with you haunting me like this."

Thorin stops staring at Dwalin and Dwalin is grateful when he feels those cold cold eyes leave the canvas of his wretched skin and stare at the wall the same way he is.

"It’s all in your head either way."

Quiet, quiet, barely a whisper.

After that, neither of them says anything else.


	22. 2014: Wind Chimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For my darling, darling dearest Selina. Terrible enabler and Shipper Trash, just like me.

"Look, momma. They sing!" Kiara calls, and laughs when the pigeons awkwardly strut out of her way. She giggles, her smile as bright as day.

"Don't run too fast, baby!" Rebecca calls after her. She wraps her coat tight around herself, and the winter wind makes her shiver. Kiara seems unstoppable. 

Rebecca rubs her hands together and turns towards Dwalin, who's trailing behind a little slowly. He's staring at his feet as he walks.

Rebecca stops and waits, then. He looks up and furrows his brow at her. She gives him a small, tired smile.

"Thank you for coming, Dwalin."

He blinks and stops and it takes him a moment to smile back. Rebecca hears her daughter laugh and turns to see where the sound is coming from before Dwalin can muster the energy to answer. Kiara is rolling in snow, and Rebecca tuts.

"Sweetheart,  _sweetheart_! You'll get your coat all wet."

She runs over and picks her daughter up.

Dwalin stares at them. He tries to force himself to smile but God his bones feel like they're falling apart under their own weight, and he stares at the two girls. Kiara shifts her weight and Rebecca sputters as she loses her hold. They both topple to the ground, and Becca laughs loudly.

Dwalin doesn't know what to do with his mind.

Here they are.  _Survivors_ , he'd call them, all three of them. Three alive and three dead.

( _it's your fault_ )

A worthy exchange for a lifetime of sins.

Kiara throws a tiny snowball at her mother and Dwalin feels the smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Her eyes look so much like Fili's he wants to scream, the same shade of green. Whenever Rebecca looks at them, she wants to curl around her daughter, keep her safe, shield her from all the harm and the darkness. 

There is so much pain in their blood and so little time to flush it all out. But God, God-- Kiara sees Dwalin and laughing throws herself into his arms. Dwalin's still _here_ enough, still human, to grab her, a three year old girl so _wonderful_  because her eyes are shining with so many fires, all the fires that have been put out through the years, all the  _pain_ flooding from darkness into the light through her joy.

He smiles as he hugs her and then looks up at Rebecca, who's hugging herself, who's grinning and the cold is limited to the edges of her heart.

Dwalin laughs at her and she laughs too and the sound isn't real, he isn't real. He doesn't know what to do, because his heart is falling apart. His heart falls apart every day, every time he looks out the window and remembers he's alone, every time he skins his knuckles punching a wall when the scream inside gets too loud,

 _your fault your fault your fault_ the voices always say, and the bottle keeps them quiet. The bottle keeps them at bay, snuffs out the thought of Thorin's lips on his, the skin on skin, the hands, the memories.

Dwalin doesn't have the time to avoid a snowball Becca throws at him. He looks up at her in sheer surprise and Kiara finds the time to wriggle out of his arms. The little girl gathers snow in her hands and throws it. It hits Dwalin on the chest.

He frowns at the two and then scoops up a handful of snow.

For a moment, the darkness is kept away.


	23. Alternate Universe 2017: The Notion of Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, an "Everybody lives, nobody dies AU"- keep in mind, though, that the events in Afghanistan happened, Smaug happened and some version of the events of 5 Army Road happened, although it clearly didn't end with everyone dying. (Also, the "family" prompt worked splendidly with this one, so I decided to combine the two).

“Fee? Kia? Fee, we're all waiting for you!  _Come on_ , we're already late!  _Fi_ - _li_ !  _Kiara_ !”

Rebecca slips her earrings on and glances around the doorway looking for her clutch (Alex points at it, next to the car keys), then at her phone to check the time, “Gu- _uys_ , come on!”

“We're coming, I was just picking up a package!” Fili yells from upstairs, sounding out of breath, as if he'd been running, or, even better, chasing a three year old around the house to get her to put her shoes on, “Just, _all right_ , here we _go_ – and then his voice cracks, as if he were hoisting up something onto his shoulder, and someone else erupts in a fit of giggles – give us a sec.” 

There's the sound of someone limping down the stairs, the shrieking laughter becomes louder and Fili emerges carrying a kicking, giggling package wrapped in a bright pink ballerina dress. 

“One package, delivered!” Fili exclaims, and he grabs his daughter and gingerly places her onto the floor. Kiara is still bubbling with laughter and she fixes her tutu, before Becca tuts, crouches in front of her and rubs a smudge of paint from off her cheek.

“ _Muuuum_.” the girl exclaims, and then, “Uncle Kili! Uncle Alex!” and she gleefully hops into Kili's arms and kisses his nose. 

“Well hello there, champion!”

“Can I ride on your shoulders up to the car?”

“Careful, Alex might get jealous.”

“Pretty please, Uncle Alex?”

Alex frowns, sighs and shrugs, before mumbling out “If you  _insist_ .” (he still has an accent, and always will) and then smiling as wide as Kili, if not more. He boops Kiara on the nose as she clambers onto her uncle's shoulders.

“All right, we all set?” Rebecca asks rhetorically, as she opens the house door and glances back at Kili and Kiara, “Careful not to hit your head on the doorframe, sweetheart.”

“Yes, _Mum_ ,” they both say in unison, and Becca glares at them and Fili takes her arm to walk up to the car.

* * *

Kiara insists on ringing the doorbell. She has to stand on her tiptoes, and Alex picks her up ever so slightly so she can reach it, but Kiara has to  _absolutely_ ring the doorbell.

It's Dwalin who opens.

“Sorry we're late,” Fili says, “but we couldn't find our tutu.”

“Oh. _Oh_ ,” Dwalin pulls his head back and squares Kiara up and down, Kiara who's standing on her tiptoes and grinning, “Well, that would've been an _absolute_ tragedy, wouldn't it?”

He steps aside to let the kids (they're still kids, always will be,  _kids_ , although two of them are married with a child and two of them have been in a stable relationship for four years now) through and grins as they pass by, looks up and smiles at Thorin who greets them all with a kiss on the cheek, except for Kiara, who immediately attacks his leg in a hug. 

He laughs in a way that has been rarer and rarer but is still devastating, and Dwalin's chest tightens just a little.

Thrain is sitting in his old green leather chair in the sitting room, and he greets Rebecca and Fili, but doesn't say a word in Kili's direction, doesn't say a word in Alex's. Sometimes living life after you've nearly died means getting clean, and sometimes getting clean means finding your courage, and coming out to friends and family at a Christmas Eve party six months prior, after which Dwalin had congratulated himself, Kiara had asked if she could touch Alex's then blue-dyed hair and Thrain had kept quiet, lips drawn tight, eye burning in Dis' direction, not a word spoken, seething,  _seething_ , snarling something about “fucking disgraces” and “faggots” and refusing to even shake his grandson and his boyfriend's hands when they'd left after dinner.

He hasn't spoken a word to Kili ever since.

The table's already set and Dis is already sitting at it, hands breaking bread into pieces but not actually eating it (she's done this ever since she was sixteen, when she lost a taste for bread and for most food and whilst regaining her appetite was a long, painful process that required blood and tears and a whole lot of bravery, bread is something she never managed to like again) and she smiles when everyone walks in (but the brightest smile is, as usual, left for one person and one only, wearing a pink tutu and matching pink, glittery flats and with large curious eyes drinking in the world, every inch, every single little crack and crevice of it). Her hair's starting to grey and there's deeper lines around her eyes and she lets out a small sigh when Kiara snugly sits herself on her lap, but the smile does not falter.

Thorin's staring at the fireplace, lingering behind, and Balin's the one who stops to wait.

“You all right, lad?”

_Lad_ , despite the silver that's started to splash his beard and hair. 

Thorin blinks a few times and it takes him a second longer to move his gaze from the ebony columns to the painting on the wall to Balin, white-haired, the same smile he's always had, quiet and observing, and he nods.

“Yes, Balin. No worries.”

Balin shrugs, “You know I always worry.”

“This time there's nothing to worry about. Really.”

He tries to smile and it works, for once, his lips seem to curve in the right direction. Balin sighs, not trusting the smile entirely, and says: “Well, dinner's almost on the table.”

He walks into the dining room. It takes a few seconds for Thorin to follow (all he can think about is Thrain's gaze when Kili came out, all he can think about is Dwalin's face when Thorin was holding a newborn Kiara, asleep in his arms, and he'd looked up at MacFundin and whispered “I miss you,” the first stitch in a heart that's been mending every day since. 

It's been a year since Dwalin moved back in to live with him). 

But he knows he'll need all the courage in the world to face the evening.

 

* * *

 

It happens by the time dessert's on the table. It happens twice, actually, once in Thorin's head and once outside, and for a moment he's sure he's not going to do it.

But then he does and the sensation of falling sometimes precedes the notion of falling.

Thorin falls as he stands up, and he falls when he gives Dwalin's hand an imperceptible squeeze, when he clears his throat and says out loud, “I have an announcement to make.”

The table falls quiet, Rebecca shifts her arms so that Kiara's sleeping head is resting more comfortably on her shoulder and Dwalin's suddenly staring at Thorin with his piercing grey-blue and Thorin knows his knees are about to give.

His heart is hammering so hard in his chest he's scared every scar ever given to him will tear open all at once and he will drown in his own blood. His hand runs up to the scar on his neck, twisted and white and thick. He runs a thumb along it and for a second forces the memory of Dwalin's lips tracing it from the night before in place of the feeling of his hands, and it makes him breathe easy.

“I... - _deep breaths oh god just breathe_ – Jesus. Okay. All right. I don't... I don't really know where I'm trying to get or where to start or. Jesus. All right. First things first, I guess. I'd like to thank Alex and Kili for giving me the courage to. To do this, really. Thank you, kids. You've helped me more than you'll ever know. Which is. It's important.”

Thorin feels his cheeks be set ablaze and his gaze wanders towards his father, who's staring at him with a gaze so dark his son suddenly fears the words are going to be halted in his mouth before he gets a chance to speak them, and his cheeks sting with the pain of all the smacks he's ever received.

But someone's looking at him with eyes that are gray and full of wonder every time they speak and they give him courage, what he's about to do gives him courage.

“The point I'm trying to make – he notices just now that he's holding a glass of wine, and his hand's shaking, and so he places it down and then buries his hands in his pockets – is that. Well, if you're smart, and I don't doubt you all are, you probably guessed what I'm about to say say... ten, fifteen years ago? - he smiles awkwardly at himself and Dis smiles at him, reassuring, as so do everyone else except for his father, whose expression is becoming worse and worse as his only surviving son continues speaking – but the point is that when I was sixteen I met a stupid foolish boy with homemade tattoos and a love for beating up Nazis that also happened to be the only person, the only person – he's stammering and he rubs his eyes and the bridge of his nose because he knows he's stammering, and glances quickly at Dwalin. MacFundin's staring at him completely dumbfounded, he's staring at him with eyes that are quickly welling up with tears – the only one I've ever loved. And I still love him. Christ, I never stopped loving him even when I lied to myself and told myself I had. Because let's face it, I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for the wonderful, _mad_ , loving and intelligent man I've decided to spend the rest of my life with. And. Yeah. I guess that's all I wanted to say.”

He feels someone grab his hand, and all of a sudden someone's spinning him around and Thorin finds Dwalin pressing his lips to his (he tastes his tears but it doesn't matter) and it's every kiss they've ever shared and then some, a wonderful elegy for all the moments they'd lost, a requiem for the love they'd wasted, a new beginning and an old ending and the sweetest poison.

It doesn't matter that his father abruptly stands up and walks away from the table, because Kili and Alex are clapping, Becca's laughing, Dis is smiling despite the tears that won't seem to stop coming, Fili thinks of two uncles taking care of him when he was four.

And Balin just nods at Dwalin when he grabs Thorin and envelopes him in a tight, wondrous hug, their heartbeats chasing after each other like they always have, through their ribs, through their clothes through their skin, through their souls, whatever they are.

Thorin's never felt this scared in all his life.

He hasn't felt this happy, either.

The sensation of falling often precedes the notion of flying- and right now he is soaring so high he can't even see the ground off of which he took off.


	24. Alternate Universe 2017: Dwalin: [stares into camera as if he were on the office]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody lives, nobody dies AU. Everyone's favourite AU... AU!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my dearest darling Lucrezia, happy birthday babe!

"Who is it?"

"Not Thorin--  _why are all the lights off_? I nearly crashed into Minty Junior."

"Because he thinks I won't be home until ten thirty. Come on in."

"Who's already here?"

"You're the first."

Dis frowns at him as she walks inside guided only by the light of Dwalin's cellphone. She's carrying a plastic bag (the cake) and several Tupperware containers (the food). Dwalin, of course's also cooked something, but Dis' potato salad is simply _special_.

"Does he suspect anything?"

"No, I told him I was leaving early because I had a doctor's appointment. Which in retrospect was a bad idea because he was constantly nervous throughout the rest of the day, pestering me _every_ single time we crossed paths. Lunch was a _nightmare_." Dis frowns up and rolls her eyes at MacFundin as he quickly grabs the food and places it on the kitchen table.

"The cake goes in the fridge!" she chirps, and MacFundin immediately takes heed. The bluish glow of the fridge being opened is the only light source in the entire house for a few seconds, and then everything goes dark again.

There's the quiet pitter-patter of a cat's paws and then a gnarled, pained meow. 

"SHIT,  _SHIT_ \- sweetheart I'm  _sorry_ , I didn't mean to step on you." _  
_

Dis smiles and laughs a little, as the cat continues her angry meowing despite Dwalin's numerous apologies. Three headlights appear in the driveway, casting their shadows along the inside of the home through the windows. Dis catches a glimpse of streamers, balloons and garlands scattered throughout the place.

Her smile widens and changes from amused to touched. The headlights go off.

Someone lightly raps on the door, accompanied by a three year old's loud babbling about what appears to be unicorn dragon salamander princesses and how great they'd be as birthday presents.

"Codeword?" Dwalin asks this time, scuttling up close to the door.

"Sausages and beer!" the same little voice answers.

" _Perfect_."

The door is swung open. Kiara immediately attaches herself to her uncle's leg, as is her custom, and she beams up at him, her grin as wide as it can be. It is answered by an even bigger grin and Dwalin picks her up and ushers everyone else inside: Becca and Fili, Alex and Kili. 

"Where's Balin? Oh hey Mum." Kili says all at once, as he places his and Alex's motorcycle helmets on the couch. It takes him a few gropes in the dark and stubbing his toe against the coffee table, but he manages.

"Driving Thorin here, if I'm not mistaken _aaaaand_ , everything goes according to plan, since I had to, quote unquote, _use_ the car." Dwalin replies, checking his phone for the millionth time. It's a quarter to eight and unless Thorin decided that he had to stay late and work until ten  _exactly that evening_ , they should be here any moment. MacFundin shifts Kiara over to his other arm, so that he can easily access the lights, and when she starts babbling loudly again, quickly places a hand on her mouth. Headlights have just appeared in the driveway.

She whines angrily, annoyed, and glares up at her dad for support. Fili places a finger to his mouth and signals for her to wait just a moment.

She frowns at her dad, too.

Balin can be heard cheerfully chattering on the other side of the door, as Thorin rummages with the keys and mumbles something about "keeping up to certain standards" and "maintaining a good image", to which Dis promptly rolls her eyes, again, unseen: he's so caught up in work he hasn't even noticed the extra two cars outside and the motorcycle.

"Ready?" Dwalin whispers.

" _Ready_!" Becca whispers back and as soon as Thorin opens the door, the living room lights go on.

" ** _SURPRISE_**!" everyone screams, Kiara the loudest, obviously. She wriggles out of MacFundin's arms only to throw herself into Thorin's.

Thorin looks visibly confused.

"Hey there, sweetcheeks," he mumbles, confused, ruffling Kia's hair as she gleefully screams "HAPPY BIRTHDAY UNCLE THORIN!" as incredibly loud as she can.

"Hap- happy. What? Wait, _what_?"

Oakenshield glances up at his assembled relatives and then fixates on Dwalin. His brow is furrowed and a look of absolute puzzlement is painted on his face. 

"What's going on?"

Dwalin blinks, furrows his brow too, seems to think and then his expression just drops.

"Oh my God."

"... _What_?"

Dwalin stares at the empty space next to Thorin's left ear, looking comically desolate, for a bunch of seconds. 

He sighs.

"It's your  _birthday_ , you  _idiot_."

"What do you mean my- my? What?" Thorin whips around to look at Balin, " _what day are we today_?"

"June seventh, lad."

Thorin blinks, "... _oh_. I was. Working so hard I didn't even... realize what day we were."

Dwalin buries his hands in his face and then starts laughing.

" _What_? It's not funny you big dumb oaf it's  _tragic_ , I _forgot my own birthday_."

Everyone is too stunned to really do anything. Dis, though, is trying very, very hard not to start laughing too. She stares at her brother, biting her lips, glances at the floor and then just starts giggling. She steps forward, envelopes Thorin and her granddaughter in a hug and exclaims, "Don't you ever,  _ever change_ , Thorin. Ever. Don't you _dare_."

Dwalin soon follows her, gracing Dis, Thorin and Kiara with one of his trademark bear hugs, also dragging Balin into it while he's at it.

Next comes Becca, who promptly barrels into Dwalin, and Fili, who rests his chin on his mother's shoulder. Alex and Kili join in, snuggling up where they can find space. 

"Can't... _breathe_ ," Thorin mutters, his smile growing larger and larger.

"How much is it, old man?" Kili asks.

"Fifty," Thorin coughs back, and Dwalin nuzzles his cheek.

"You're an _idiot,_ " he mumbles into Thorin's ear, "but God do I love ya," and Thorin blushes. 


	25. 2023: Cities of Night (Sneak Peek)

Late night, black as tar, a flicker of neon lights. Elrond stares at the Espresso machine and it stares back. When he finally decides to feed it a capsule, the capsule slips out of his grasp and falls to the floor before he can.

“ _No_.”

He ducks down to pick it up and then stuffs it into the tray, slams it shut and starts the coffee. It bubbles cheerfully. He stretches his back, like a cat, he blinks, he rubs his eyes.

“Boss?”

“Give me a moment, Lindir.”

A finger raised to ask for this, both eyes closed and hidden by his hand. Lindir simply waits, and it takes Elrond a few seconds of fingertips pressing over his left eyebrow to make his gaze go from glassy and unfocused to simply tired.

“Okay.”

He straightens his shirt, waits for his coffee to finish and then turns back towards the conference room. Most tables have been shoved to the side, there's a whiteboard and a projector and one table piled with boxes and papers and documents, pens strewn across it, coffee cups, a few cartons of Chinese food. Lindir's sitting at the edge of the table, Haldir's napping in a corner, Thranduil's absent-mindedly playing with a piece of paper and dozing off.

Tauriel's staring at the bulletin board with photos and graphs and documents. Her brow is furrowed, there's a strawberry Twizzler between her teeth and she's scanning a phone call transcript intently.

“Have you ever wanted to hate someone?” she asks. Elrond turns towards her, somewhat puzzled.

“Depends on who, really. Plenty of people.”

“Not _hate_. _Want_ to hate. But can't.”

“Examples?”

Tauriel gestures at the boxes and papers, “This. All this. I  _know_ it's shitty and I  _know_ it's terrible and it's unsolvable and we've been trying to figure it out for months now, and I  _know_ she's smart and all, and terrible. But-- shit. She's so  _good_ at this.”

“Sauron or Shelob?”

“Both. Holy shit, they're both terrifying.” 

She stands up and finishes chewing on the Twizzler, “I mean--  _this_ level of organization? Of secrecy? Of intelligence? No one would've been able to pull it off, unless, unless--”

And then Tauriel's eyes widen.

Elrond arches an eyebrow.

“Tau?”

“Holy. _Holy_. It's all connected.”

“What's all connected?”

“It's all connected.”

She turns, she grabs a pen, she grabs a piece of paper.

 


	26. 2023: Starlight, Starbright

When he comes home it's already dark, all he wants is a warm bath.

Thranduil's been on his feet for  _hours_ , and he'd been running around the office for most of that time. He parks the car, cracks his neck and then drags himself up the front steps and into the house. He takes his 

"Gang, I'm home!" he calls out as he's used to.

No answer comes. The kitchen lights are on and so are the living room's, but the only trace of living presence is the milk left on the counter (Thranduil sighs and puts it back into the fridge) and Elk sprawled on the couch although he shouldn't be.

The dog kicks the air as it dreams and Thranduil doesn't have the heart to shoo him off.

He calls out once more, " _Hello_?" and scrunches his nose when his voice echoes and bounces against the walls and comes back to him with no reply, " _Anyone_?"

And yet the lights were on upstairs when he came up the driveway. Thranduil makes his way up the stairs and knocks on Legolas' bedroom door. 

No answer.

He ponders whether opening it would be seen as a breach of his daughter's basic teenage human rights and as he does so, Legolas opens the door wide for him before he can knock again. Xe's wearing makeup, and looks one hundred percent intentioned on going out.

"Oh. Hello."

Xe blinks. "Hey Dad."

"You didn't tell me you had plans."

Legolas dodges xir dad "Last minute organisation," and runs down the stairs.

"Can I  _at least_ know where you're going?"

"Gimli invited me out for dinner!"

Thranduil ponders the answer for a second and then follows up with another question, "Where are you going?"

"His aunt's. Gonna experience some real Lebanese cooking!" xe yells as xe grabs xir bag off the couch and gives Elk a quick tummy rub.

"Don't be back too late! Also, you left the milk out!"

"Wasn't me!", and xe accidentally slams the door shut on the way out. Thranduil stares at the empty stairway for a few seconds and then rubs his eyes, "Well that's one of the girls settled."

The other one, though, is still missing in action.

"Tauriel?" he calls out, but no answer comes.

Thranduil sighs and goes to their room: the bed's made, the closet's still full of clothes, no suitcases are missing. He snorts to himself and then noses around their study, which is also empty. He tries her mobile and hears it ringing on the desk. Thranduil tilts his head at it and then crosses his arms.

Which is when, incidentally, he notices the window is open, the blinds aren't shut and the curtains are slightly blowing in the breeze. He blinks at them and then pokes his head out of the window.

"Tauriel?" he asks, because asking doesn't hurt.

"I'm up here," comes her voice. She'd had the night shift, he'd had the day shift: they'd briefly seen each other that morning at eight AM as he left the house, she came in and Legolas was late for school. Thranduil furrows his brow: Tauriel's sitting on the roof, a blanket around her. He hadn't seen her as he came in just because the study is on the back of the house.

"It's _freezing_ , what are you doing up here? Are you all right?"

"I'm stargazing."

Which, usually, means no. Thranduil hauls himself up the roof and carefully makes his way up next to her. She lifts up a side of the blanket and he gladly wraps both of them in it. He brings his knees up to his chest. It's dangerous, but neither of them really care.

"What're you looking at?"

Tauriel points, "Eridanus." and Thranduil squints to follow her line of vision and see which constellation she's showing him. He can't see it.

"I can't see it."

"Up there, there, and there," Tauriel says, tracing lines between stars with her finger. Thranduil cocks his head to the side.

"You still can't see it?"

"I'm not good at these things, you know it."

She smiles and leans her head on his shoulder. He pulls her close, wraps an arm around her.

"Is it work stuff?"

"Yeah."

"Wanna talk about it?"

Tauriel sighs.

"They found a kid today."

"Oh. Oh Geez."

Tauriel pulls herself out of his hug and hugs herself instead, "Yeah."

"How old?"

"Twelve. He's the kid that disappeared a few weeks back. The. The press dredged up a storm."

Thranduil swallows as Tauriel wipes her eyes with the heels of her palms. He kisses her cheek and she smiles so strained he feels like his entire world is breaking.

"And they always tell you not to let it _get to you_ , right? But shit, this kid was  _twelve_. He was  _twelve_ , and they'd done  _everything_ to him, and shit.  _Shit._ "

"Hey. Hey. Tiny, it's okay. It's okay. Cry it out."

She takes a deep, shaky breath and buries her face in her hands with a groan. He rests his chin on her head as she leans against his chest. 

"It's okay. I'm right here."

He cradles her as she mumbles, "I know." and he presses his lips to her forehead. She sniffles. 

He holds her like that for the longest time.


End file.
